


Rose Colored

by thethirdseventh



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Mild canon divergence, Movie: A Game of Shadows, Post-Reichenbach, mild fandom overlap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 20:31:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18948277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethirdseventh/pseuds/thethirdseventh
Summary: You can only be amazed for so long, but sometimes all it takes is a step back to regain the sense of wonder. Then again, as soon as you come back you’re bound to lose it again. It’s a survival thing. It applies to war, to illness, to the miracle of health, and to Sherlock Holmes.





	Rose Colored

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachelindeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelindeed/gifts).



> I’m taking a wild guess and assuming that the ending of A Game of Shadows occurs exactly one year after Watson’s wedding, namely, that he and Mary are taking the trip that was meant to be their honeymoon as a first-anniversary celebration. That would give Watson time to get properly settled and write everything up to that last adventure. Also, I decided to arbitrarily set _The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb_ during the time Watson and Holmes still lived together, because I liked that character and what even _is_ canon?
> 
> Also, this story is a gift for rachelindeed in the context of the Holmestice exchange. I hope you enjoy it!

_ Self-indulgent and masochistic. _ Holmes was hopeless with any writing outside of the technical kind, but he had no trouble hitting both accuracy and dramatism when he spoke. And as John sat before the pile of notebooks in his desk, set on putting them to some kind of working order, he knew it was something Holmes would have said.

His friend’s pride, for all its inconceivable magnitude, only fully peaked in private. He rejoiced in secret knowledges, in sole guardianships of vital insight. He was as quick to flee a spotlight as he was to run towards a problem. He enjoyed a certain amount of recognition from select sources, but he would have cared for no monuments built to his talents.

So yes, John was doing this entirely for himself. And too soon, at that. He steeled himself and reached for the notebook at the top of the dusty pile, once again wondering about the point of this. It was a relief of sorts, knowing he would never have to endure Holme’s opinion on this particular undertaking. That made him smile, and at last the apprehension banished.  

He recognized the notebook even before he opened it. It was the first one, the one he had bought pushed by sheer disbelief, and having no one to share it with. It struck him as a kind of omen that it should be that one. Or maybe, just maybe, being at the bottom of the trunk meant it had landed at the top of the pile.

The pages weren’t quite yellowed, but they were starting to grow stiff. The first page read simply “reminiscences” in his own messy handwriting. It was framed on one side by the remnants of the original first page, ripped out in a fit of bewilderment and tossed into the fire. And yet he found he still remembered the contents of that list, if he cared to try.

Suddenly afraid of forgetting, he scrambled for a pencil and right there, under the title, quickly reconstructed what he could remember.

He invested twenty minutes perfecting it, filling gaps, and maybe another five simply going over the items and grinning, grinning like an idiot, feeling better than he had in weeks. 

*

Sometimes John would be annoyed by something, and he’d need a minute’s introspection to identify exactly what it was. Like how the newspapers seemed terribly dull of late. Mary noticed that one before he did. He was sitting at his kitchen table, enjoying his breakfast, feeling a little like in a restaurant, the table was so full. Cinnamon muffins, toast, eggs, sausage, rice. Mary had decided to spoil him for no particular reason. He wasn’t about to complain. One moment he was perusing the news, pointedly trying no to laugh at Mary scolding Mary Jane for the thousandth time over cracking poached eggs directly into a rolling boil. The next the lady herself was falling into her own chair with a sigh and a smirk. Then she caught sight of him.

“What is it?”

“What’s what?”

“What are you angry about? 

“I’m not angry.”

“You’re frowning.”

“Am I?” he was genuinely surprised.

She smiled at him. “Yes, you are.”

She touched his cheek, amused. He melted a little, and the way his face relaxed let him know that he had been, in fact, frowning. He stared at the newspaper as if it could reveal the source of his irritation. It did. A band of thieves had attempted to rob a pawn shop, only to be quickly captured by Scotland Yard agents two streets from the shop. Apparently, they had neglected to incapacitate the shopkeeper, who had run shouting for help as soon as the burglars had set foot out of the premises. It had been a sloppy job, and John... he felt personally aggravated, as if he had been robbed of a better tale. It was a ridiculous notion. He didn’t know how to feel about that.

*

It was a few weeks later when Victor Hatherley came into his practice to get treated for measles. He'd heard, he said, and wanted to give his condolences. He remembered Holmes fondly, and to tell the truth, he had no idea who to give them to. John was glad to see the man, for more reasons than the pleasure of his company. They caught up on businesses --Hatherley was doing remarkably well-- and when it was John’s turn to update the fellow he decided to tell him about his latest hobby. Hatherley was fascinated.

“Will you write my story?” he asked with a complicit grin.

“I already have.” 

The man’s face lit up. “May I read it?”

John smiled. This was going well. “Of course. In fact, I was planning to send you a copy for… approval.”

“Approval?”

“My wife says the stories might be good enough to publish. I had no interest in the beginning, but now I’m considering it. I’m going to need consent from all parties involved to make the stories public, my lawyer says, and--”

“Oh, you can count with mine!”    
John was delighted, but he found the man’s cheer still disturbed him. Eventually Hatherley got to the reason why he'd come. He turned gloomy as he did, and that, at least, was a relief. When John asked him what on Earth made him think he had measles, Hatherley mentioned a persistent cough and a rash on his back. John examined the rash, and asked Hatherley if he slept naked. Hesitantly, he said yes. John recommended a change of linens and a few day’s rest for the cold, and spent the rest of his own day mentally recriminating the man for jumping to conclusions.

*

There were times in which John was grateful he’d taken notes. He could have sat down and accurately told the tale of every single one of the cases he’d been involved in, everything from the events as he’d witnessed them to Holmes’ line of reasoning in untangling them. But it was in the details that he struck gold. It was the details that colored the moments, the things he’d forgotten he’d said, the specific eccentricities in Holmes’ day to day life that would endlessly intrigue him as well as make his life hell.

And maybe that was the whole point of this. To relive this, in a way. Because the whole time he had known Sherlock Holmes presented itself in his memories as some kind of dream. He’d found the man irritating, annoying, criminally irresponsible, but also fascinating. He’d been a constant source of wonder. The day Sherlock Holmes died, he’d lost a friend, but the hole his friendship had left in John was nothing compared to the hole the man himself had left in the world. Sherlock Holmes had not been someone John knew as much as something that had happened to him, and what you found at the end of the shock, past the worst of the grief, was that, simply, the world had become a less interesting place. 

It had been nine months.

*

Eventually, the package came, and John wished, he wished he could work up more a reaction, but the predominant emotion was actually a lack of one -the distinctive, absurd lack of surprise. It was too peculiar a feeling to pay any mind to the backdrop of joy and relief. Because of course, this would be something Holmes, of all people, would do. He was the only person from which this kind of behavior would not come as a surprise.

In the end, he sprang to action, not wanting to be too hopeful, still willing to follow the breadcrumb trail to wherever it may lead. But then he came back to his study after interrogating Mary to find his manuscript tampered with (confirmation, sweet confirmation), and all the urgency drained from him. Later he would be self-conscious. Right now it was like the world was suddenly back in order, and a wash of the old annoyance was allowed to take over. 

He had an anniversary trip to go to. Holmes could very well wait until he was back.


End file.
